Born For Adversity
by let-the-eli-in
Summary: Cocaine knows more than one master. Holmes finds himself on the other side of the needle and his dearest friend at the mercy of his own grief. Not slash, post-Final Problem. Epilogue posted.
1. Chapter 1

_**Born For Adversity**_

"_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17_

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Any reader of dear Watson's rather romanticized accounts of our adventures will be aware of the fact that cocaine usage is a habit he forcefully caused me to resign some years ago. The many years he spent pointedly telling me of the drug's negative effects I had ignored to the best of my efforts, but I could no longer stand to experience that strange and confounding disappointment he would hand me upon witnessing my use of the needle. Therefore, the drug has remained dormant in a portion of my desk, cheerfully neglected.

Even so, there was many a time when I came dreadfully close to pursuing its effects once more. Watson knew - I often caught sight of his eyes straying between me and the cocaine. I thought for sure that when I told him of my intentions to relinquish the narcotic, he would promptly toss it all through our sitting room window. However, he did not, instead trusting me to avoid it and honor his wishes. For that sort of confidence I would pay the price of a little doubt. It was doubt well deserved, for in the years of our partnership I cannot recall one instance where I had earned otherwise. Yet it is that horrible emotion which I have currently been dealt, and I sit here now to pen the events that brought it about before time sees fit to dull their clarity.

It was the fall of 1894, and I felt things between Watson and myself had settled back into normalcy. It had been a bitter year so far; I had succeeded in putting away the devilish Colonel Sebastian Moran, effectively eliminating most if not all of Moriarty's far-reaching influence in this world. However, this victory was heavily overshadowed by the events preceding it, especially in Watson's mind. Feeling he was not likely to be overly fond of my company any longer, I had fully expected to have my lodgings once again in my sole custody. It was not a welcoming prospect, and I did not wish it to be so. I asked him to stay, and contacted some distant relative of mine to make sure he had no reasons but a personal one to say no. I was immensely pleased with the arrangement, and Baker Street was once again home to two residents (excuse me, three - one mustn't forget Mrs. Hudson, and I doubt it is possible at any rate).

Yet true normalcy, I learned, would be long in coming. I had missed a great deal during my three year absence, and Watson was not the man I had left behind at Reichenbach.

Through correspondence with my brother I had learned of the death of Watson's wife earlier in the year, and it took the better part of my self-control to keep myself from discarding the title of Sigerson and boarding the next ship bound for England. To a man of Watson's peculiar disposition, family - whether they are of blood or of choice, I have learned - is of the utmost importance. For two years I had been able to sleep with the knowledge that Mary Watson was with my friend, taking care of both his physical and mental faculties. It was she, I felt, that would keep the pain and grief of my 'death' at bay. To learn of her own, irreversible demise was a bitter, frightening blow. I doubted whether or not my poor Boswell could handle such emotional strain.

However, the plan I had crafted for my return could not compromised, not even for Watson's sake. I forced myself to remain in my state of perpetual wandering, praying to God that the Doctor would not attempt to meet Him.

But now we both were safely in our armchairs, myself shuffling through piles of dull correspondence (honestly, if I had known that our sitting room would be flooded with such monotonous tokens of amazement and praise, I might have reconsidered feigning my death) and Watson penning a presumably idealistic account of our last case. It indeed felt like old times, and I was comfortable in the fact that for now, nothing was amiss.

But I suspect that my powers of deduction, or at the very least, my abilities to read emotion in the actions and expressions of a man, must have been reduced after three years of no real exertion. Or perhaps I was simply too content to notice. Watson has called me a machine on several occasions, but a machine does not err as I did.

"Ah hah!" I cried in undisguised triumph, jolting Watson so that his ink pen slid across the paper. He scowled darkly at me for that one, but I paid him no mind. After a good hour of sorting my mail into piles (so far there had only been one, and that was slated for supper with our fire), I'd found something interesting. I told Watson as much as I fetched my hat and coat, holding the door out to street open so that our partnership could continue on another adventure.

But, for the first time in a long time, Watson refused me.

My spirits dampened considerably, though my excitement had not completely dimmed. Seeing the shadow fall upon me, he hurriedly offered an explanation in order to placate me.

"Holmes, the weather is horrible out there, and my leg is already unbearably sore." He smiled softly, more so than he was wont to do. "I have reservations about even allowing you out into such conditions, but I doubt you are one to take a doctor's advice."

"You know me much too well, my dear Watson."

"Yes, well, when you come home complaining of a bout of pneumonia, don't expect me or Mrs. Hudson to be the least bit sympathetic."

Chuckling slightly at Watson's spell of humor, I hurried outside to hail a cab, satisfied with my friend's answer.

"Holmes!"

I turned around, surprised to see Watson in the doorway, a strange collection of expressions etched in his face. "Be careful, alright?"

Had I a lesser reign on my emotions I might have burst into a small fit of hysterics, though I attribute such a fancy to my elation at the time. It seemed fitting that Watson would so concerned about me in our separation, as he frets enough about my well-being when we are together. He seems to think something dreadful will come to drag me away should I not be in his presence. Such is the nature of worry.

"You have nothing to fear, my good fellow."

I certainly did.

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**A/N: I think I wrote a one-shot like this at least a year ago, but it has since been lost. So I decided to turn this little plot bunny into a chaptered story. Goodness knows I need to write more of those.**

**Dedicated to KCS, who's remarkable stories made me think it wouldn't be such a bad idea to ease myself away from oneshots and drabbles. Welcome to the site!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Born For Adversity**_

"_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17_

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I returned to our lodgings at Baker Street thoroughly soaked and in a sour mood, as is the usual course when I am wet and have been disappointed in a case. What had looked promising turned out to be completely uninteresting, an incident of mere mistaken identity and murder. I scowled at the uncreative nature of modern criminals - they had no consideration for the arts, nor for the private consulting detective that would be sent away from his warm place by the fire to apprehend them.

_Maybe you're just missing your bloodhound_. The thought, unwelcome as it was, had merit. Throughout the entire affair I had been distracted. When I stumbled upon something of interest (not a frequent occurrence on that day, but I digress), there was no eager Watson to relay my thoughts to. It was an uncomfortable business to only have one's self to talk to, unable to effectively dramatize or elaborate upon the point because you were already knowledgeable of it. At the very least my love of theatrics had been affected.

But it was that intrepid loyalty I truly missed. It was an odd thing indeed to look behind me and not see my friend with a pistol grasped within his hand.

I fear that I must concede that I had succumbed to loneliness, and realize that in the varied absences of Watson I have become exceedingly accustomed to the sentiment. That undesirable insight in mind, I hurried up the seventeen steps to our sitting room, keen to relay the rather uninspiring account of my latest endeavor.

Yet I was fated to be immeasurably disappointed - though a fire raged within the hearth, the sitting room was entirely empty. The dear doctor's armchair was vacant, and a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea had been left untouched. The door to the hall was left open, however, and I concluded the pain of dear Watson's war wounds must have been too much for him and that he had decided to retire early. I allowed a small grin to emerge as I stared into our fireplace - even in such a state of weariness my friend had thought of my own need for warmth.

It is that singular thoughtfulness that I believe allows - or perhaps forces - Watson to tolerate me and my eccentricities. Throughout the many years of our association I have been surprised by his seemingly incalculable amount of patience. When an experiment went wrong and I refused to give merit to the burns on my hands, Watson would not hesitate in finding the nearest bottle of ointment. Or, when a case presented itself in such a way that it demanded the entirety of my attention and I did not consume anything of nutritional value, Watson would hastily put Mrs. Hudson to work and command me to eat whatever was put in front of me. I remember a few humorous occasions in which Mrs. Hudson was not available, and the doctor had little compunction over assuming cooking detail, and I believe he may yet have scars to show for it. It was such devotion that I was accustomed to, and no longer surprised to encounter.

I seated myself in my armchair, lighting my favored pipe with an indolent hand. Without the conversation I had hoped Watson would offer upon my return home, my thoughts inevitably strayed back to that monotonous case. It had been a rather plain affair - sordid, yet without that flair of dramatic I have to come expect from every facet of my existence. This case, sadly, was not the only one which was worthy of such lamenting on my part - since the arrest of Moran crime had become a muted aspect of London. It forced me to realize just how skilled a puppeteer the Professor Moriarty had been, and yet now I mourned the fact that my goal of cutting all the strings had been accomplished.

Things would not get any better, I mused. It would be folly for me to hope that another brilliant mind so equal to my own would surface. Rather lost in such melancholy thoughts, I attempted to console myself with my violin. The music did little in the way of comfort, and so I was left again to my ponderings, a situation Watson always thinks rather dangerous. Indeed it was, as for the first time in years my eyes strayed to the top right drawer of my writing desk, and there they remained.

To think of cocaine once more felt strangely favorable. I have only a few things in this life with which I am comfortable, and despite my abandonment of it I knew the drug so very well. I was experiencing the very thing - the very circumstance of boredom - that had originally led me to purchasing it. It was contained in that desk for that singular purpose, and now, when I was most in need of its remarkable effects, I was allowing it to remain dormant within a drawer.

Of course, Watson would prefer it that way. But again, Watson had retired and was presumably unconscious. It would be no difficult feat to lift the syringe out of its casing and enjoy it for the remaining hours he would be asleep.

I am not proud of my thoughts. As I said before, the doctor's doubt was well deserved.

Extinguishing my pipe, I stood from my armchair and strode over to the desk, willing the feelings of guilt and anguish to disappear. I slid open the top right drawer and withdrew the rather ornate casing, drawing a finger over the etchings. How many times had I done this before? I could not remember. That thought alone should have frightened me, but I paid it no heed. I was far too jaded to consider neglecting the cocaine.

I opened the case, suppressing all semblances of guilt.

I felt an odd sort of lurching when I discovered that the syringe and solution were missing.

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**AN: Sorry about the wait, and please forgive the length. Read and review if you feel so inclined!**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Born For Adversity**_

"_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17_

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I cannot pen my exact thoughts on the matter as I stared into the empty casing, for I do not know whether I was thinking at all. It was a shock to my system to find my store of cocaine missing, and for a few moments I did nothing but gaze blankly at the velvet interior of the case.

My mind reeled at this decidedly odd turn of events. Had I used it all up previously, and forgotten about it? That was certainly a possibility - I have forgotten entire afternoons as a result of cocaine, and to this day I cannot recall them.

Another thought came. Perhaps Watson had done just what I had presumed he would, and thrown the entire lot in the Thames. Confidence indeed.

But that particular situation was the one I favored. My pride was hurt at the notion that Watson's faith in me had run its course, but it was preferable to having unknowingly taken the drug behind his back. He is a longsuffering fellow, but even his patience would extinguish were I to do such a thing.

The vacant case still within my grasp, I sank back once again into my armchair, lost in my thoughts. My Boswell had done just what I expected he would, yet I found myself slightly bitter over the whole affair. I didn't deserve the trust he had given me, and I don't believe that I ever will. Still, it was a hard blow to realize that trust had been snatched away from me so suddenly. Even so, this felt as though it were a good thing - Watson had saved me from myself once again.

There was nothing to occupy my mind anymore. I was lacking Watson, musical inspiration, stimulating work, and cocaine. In times of sheer boredom I have always had at least one of those things at my disposal. Not now, however. As quickly as I had seated myself in my armchair, I stood again, restless pacing the only alternative I could think of. For a while I made loose threads in our rug, contemplating the possibility of waking Watson up and heading towards Simpson's for a meal.

As I rounded our sitting room for the sixth time, a small object caught my eye. It was buried beneath a mountain of Watson's writings - am I really the disorganized half of this partnership? - and I did not recall it being there when I left. Intrigued, I sought it out, disregarding my friend's papers as I threw them across the floor. I found the object, an aging album that had certainly known better days. At first I resisted the entirely natural urge to flip through the pages, for this was Watson's personal property, and while he wouldn't be surprised if I happened to look through it, I doubted he would appreciate the gesture. But I could only battle the temptation for so long.

The pages were faded, and contained a number of photographs, letters, and small mementos. The photos were always of one woman and one man, and it was easy to see that it was Watson and his late wife. They were smiling, and their complete happiness was evident. The letters were ones of love - while Mary was not quite so eloquent as her husband, she got the point of her undying adoration well across. I could not help but color with embarrassment as I continued. I had never seen Watson as affectionate as the album demonstrated, and I began to feel that I was prying. I will admit that when Watson first announced his intention to marry, I believed that he would be back home in Baker Street within the course of several months. It was beyond my abilities to imagine Watson settling down permanently with any one woman, for I had come to think that he shared my hatred of domestics, and aside from that he is rather vivacious when it comes to female company.

However, when I am confronted with such evidence, even I must rethink my conclusions.

Watson had adored Mary so completely, that I knew already, but only now did I see how truly in love he had been. I have never known such an experience, so it is a bit of a difficult thing for myself to comprehend. I continued to flip through the decrepit album until a newspaper clipping sparked my interest.

It came near the end, and my stomach contracted. It was an obituary, a wretched one, with the name of Mary Watson at the heading. Yet it was the date that nearly caused me to drop the book.

'_-passed away on November 22, 1893...'_

It had been a year ago, on this very date.

I let out a breath that I had not realized I had been holding. Mastery of reasoning, powers of deduction - I obviously did not possess any such qualities if I had failed to notice that today was the anniversary of the day my dearest friend was rendered a widower!

With shaking hands I replaced the album to its place on the desk. I had missed all the signs: the silence, the refusal to accompany me, his worry over my well-being. Watson was grieving, and I did not realize it. In my frenzied state, the case that once held my cocaine appeared to be staring at me. I picked it up from the side table, eyeing it with disdain. I opened it, tracing the permanent imprint the weight of the syringe had made. However, I pulled my fingers away with some shock - the velvet was damp.

My mind, as I had trained it, went through the numerous possibilities as to why that would be so, and to my dismay I could come to only one conclusion.

The solution had spilled, and for that to happen someone must have used it. With all the evidence before, it did not require much time for me to deduce just who that someone had to have been.

"Oh, dear God…"

With athleticism better suited to my younger days, I fled upwards to my dearest friend's bedroom.

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**AN: Couldn't resist stopping there. No worries, next chapter will be up soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Born For Adversity**_

"_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17_

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**AN: First off, I want to apologize for the wait. I've been insanely busy this week and didn't have a chance to update. I hope you can forgive and enjoy this chapter!**

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It was then I concluded that we simply had too many steps up towards Watson's bedroom. I felt as though I would never reach his door, though I was running with a speed to which my bones were protesting. My ever-calculating mind told me to calm down, that this was completely out of character for my dear Watson and that cocaine had never harmed me in the past. My heart, that odd feature I am not very disposed to listening to, told me Watson was human and, as far as I knew, not a frequent nor skilled user of cocaine. While he was a doctor, the possibility of him overdosing was a shadow over my frantic mind.

I came to his door at long last. I quite nearly forgot all about the functions of doorknobs, for at that point I was fully prepared to break down his door. Thankfully for Mrs. Hudson I recovered enough of my sanity to try and enter as I usually would. I knew nothing yet - it was still possible nothing upsetting had occurred.

His door was not locked, and I slowly pushed it open with an air of apprehension.

There was not one light lit inside, but in the darkness I could discern the outline of my friend. My heart threatened to break out of my chest. "Watson!" I bellowed, nearly tripping over whatever happened to be in my way as I launched myself towards him. He didn't answer, and an irrational fear seized me as I hurriedly lighted the lamp on the bedside table.

"Holmes?"

The taste of vile threatened my mouth as I sighed in relief at the sound of his voice. It was momentary, however - Watson was worse than I had ever seen him. He was curled up in a chair, my syringe lying on his leg. I didn't even try to look at his face; instead I took hold of his wrist in an almost violent method and pushed away the cuff of his sleeve. My eyes told me what I previously had not been willing to believe. Several pinpricks dotted the underside of my friend's arm.

It took the better part of my self control to keep from crying out.

I'll admit that I was close to panicking. I frantically checked Watson's pulse, which was racing, and checked his eyes, not aware that he was speaking.

"Holmes! I am fine, I am alright."

I looked up at him, gazing at his pale, haunted face. He breathed heavily and was sweating, but aside from such conditions he was not the unconscious man I had half-expected to encounter.

At last, I found the will to speak, praying to God that my voice was steady. "I believe I now realize just what I've put you through all these years."

I stood, clasping my hands to conceal their shaking. I leaned against the bedroom wall to keep myself from utter collapse, gazing at the thin, ghost of a man seated in Watson's armchair. I recalled his frequent descriptions when I was the one under the cloud of the drug, and the presence of such traits in my friend was more than a little disturbing.

"Holmes." I started visibly at the sound of Watson's voice, strained with a tone of desperation. He seemed to be struggling for words, as was I. I do not suspect that either of us wished to initiate the conversation, inevitable as it was. Besides, how could _I _speak to him on this matter? There could not be a more hypocritical act.

I forced myself to be that cold, calculating machine Watson has always presumed me to be, for as long as I required to have my questions answered. I dearly hoped it would not be a long or difficult process, for it was exceedingly arduous to maintain a façade of indifference.

"You are quite lucid, Watson," I said dryly, avoiding eye contact as though it were some sort of disease. "Tell me, when did you last inject yourself?"

I could see every line in his face quiver with embarrassment and guilt. I believe the only circumstance which would have caused him more shame was if he had harmed someone else. I knew my Boswell; even this remorse was not for the detrimental effects of his actions, but for the pain he was dealing me.

"An hour ago, I believe." I registered a small amount of pride at the fact that his voice was perfectly steady - had he broken, I don't think I could have held the reigns of my emotions.

"And you have stayed here in your room for the remaining time and done nothing else?"

"I had to stay here. You returned home earlier than I had expected, and I could not very well come down with your syringe in my hands."

The exchange was reminiscent of one of my numerous investigations - I the unwavering interrogator, Watson the conscience-stricken criminal who sought to tell his story before disappearing from the pages of history and into the grey shadows of an English prison.

But this was not an investigation. This was Sherlock Holmes very nearly surrendering his composure to the revelation that his dearest friend was not as unshakeable as once thought. It is I who has always required Watson's assistance and camaraderie, and I was not comfortable with this sudden swapping of roles.

I breathed in deeply to steady my shattered nerves. If I was to be the column of support for now, then it would not do for me to be emotional. "How many times have you taken my cocaine before?"

"For the sake of tradition, I'll ask how you deduced that I have… done this more than once."

In more favorable conditions I would have relished such a question. I despised it now. "There are multiple injection sites on the inside of your wrist. Some are considerably faded, so you must have indulged yourself some months back. So I ask again: how many times?"

Watson appeared agonized, but I was forcefully detached and could offer him none of the comfort I so dearly wished to give him. "Twice. The week after Reichenbach and the day after Mary's death."

I shuddered at his mention of Reichenbach. I did not realize to what extent my little scheme had affected him. I attempted for several uncomfortable moments to express this, but I could do no such thing, and sighed in frustration. "You are truly alright, Watson? You have not overdosed?"

""I am a doctor Holmes," he said quietly, the smallest of laughs preceding his next statement. "However little you think of my abilities, I am familiar with drugs and precise with a needle."

I was placated on that point, and offered him a half-grin in response. Yet the action did not carry with it any cheerfulness. A great weariness overcame me then, and I drew my hand through my hair with a tormented sigh. Seeing my distress, Watson immediately stood - that God-forsaken syringe fell to the floor -, but now that the veil of cocaine had been lifted from his senses, the pain of his leg seemed to return in force. He staggered against me and I grasped him around the shoulders. I guided him back into his chair, but before I could look away he managed to catch the panic in my eyes.

"Holmes," he began, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his lips as he leaned back. "You deserve an explanation."

"I already have one. Or part of one, at least."

"What do you mean?"

I eased myself unto his bed. I found it much too difficult to remain standing. "You neglected to tell me that today was the first anniversary of Mary's death, you know."

Watson seemed rather surprised, and hurriedly began to examine the intricacies of his footwear. I wanted to say something, anything, that would take away the guilt and sadness that I had driven him to in my selfishness. As it was, I could only bear witness to my friend's long-hidden grief. "I did not think it necessary."

I bristled at that. "Did you think I would mock you for it?"

"No! It was not that. You've been very… happy, Holmes, these past few months. That has been my wish for years now, and I did not wish to disrupt it by burdening you with my troubles."

"So instead you steal my cocaine?" His overwhelming nature of altruism was more than I could handle. Was he so concerned for my unimportant happiness that he would risk his life for it? I was not worth that, I was hardly worth his acquaintance! I became quite angry with the both of us - him for regarding me with such high esteem, and myself for not earning it. "My confounded happiness is not worth your health!" I said sharply, instantly regretting my fearful tone. "I-I am sorry, Watson. Knowing of my history, it is not my place to be upset with you."

Watson shook his head slowly. "Holmes, this is the very thing I have chided you for. Of course it is your place."

I allowed a sardonic laugh to escape me. "'Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but don't consider the beam that is in your own eye?'" I muttered gruffly. "No, my dear Watson. I believe we are both at fault here." I caught a strange look in my friend's eye. "At the very least this incident has assured me of your humanity. Now, would you see fit to come downstairs with me?"

That strange look resurfaced. "You will not mind my company? After this?"

"Your memory is not a good servant towards you, Watson, for I distinctly recall a doctor forcefully imposing his company upon myself when I had last used cocaine."

My friend realized that any further protests would fall on deaf ears, and so with my assistance we the both of us trudged downstairs to our sitting room, my own thoughts straying to a pair of choice violin pieces that I knew Watson favored, and when he would be well enough to accompany me and a Moroccan case to the Thames.

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**Just the epilogue remains!**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Born For Adversity**_

"_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17_

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It did not pain me to watch my costly Moroccan case be carried away by the filth of the Thames. It did, however, pain me to throw it - I had done so with such force that my shoulder had begun to burn.

Watson chuckled slightly at my discomfort, remarking quietly about the folly of old men. I rebuked him sharply, but after a moment I found myself also amused. After the previous day's events, every following occurrence was something in which to find contentment or gratitude.

Arm in arm we walked beside the river, exhausting every topic suited for conversation in a fairly obvious attempt to avoid any talk of cocaine. We were comfortable with each other's evasion of the matter, as neither of us possessed much desire to discuss it. As far as we were concerned, the entire episode was contained in that wretched case, which now was traveling leisurely towards the sewers.

However, there was one point upon which I was not satisfied, and it was that singular point which threw my contentment into disorder. So, in accordance with my disposition, I decided to set about righting it.

I gave Watson no indications of my intentions, instead leading him blithely through the streets - and not in the direction of Baker Street. So content was he that it took him several moments to realize we were not returning to our lodgings.

"Holmes? Where are we headed?"

"You'll see."

Honestly, if I did not think it was necessary, I would have preferred to avoid this coming excursion altogether. I knew that, as is usual with occurrences that tax one's emotions, it would in all likelihood be completely unpleasant. It has been a long while since I have last dealt with the death of someone close to me, something for which I have not been sufficiently grateful. Watson, however, was not so fortunate. During my absence he had lost the last remnants of his family, the more immediate members having perished in past years. Also, in his mind, he had lost a friend.

Looking at the entire affair now, it probably should not have come as a shock to me that Watson had delved into my supply of cocaine. I have spent a good portion of my life to understanding the human mind, as I must first be able to fathom the reasons for a man's actions before I can predict them. Yet I had fallen into such a frame of mind concerning Watson that I had prematurely eliminated the possibility of his succumbing to human nature. I felt that a change in his static character was unthinkable, and such an assumption seemed to have nearly doomed our partnership.

However, I like to think that I am a man who learns from his mistakes, which was why I was leading my friend in that little detour which caused him so much bewilderment.

I drummed my fingers against my arm, a despicable nervous habit that betrayed my agitated state as we neared our destination. Watson stiffened as he realized that it happened to be a graveyard we were approaching - a graveyard we both knew held more memories for him than for me. I grasped his arm tightly, offering whatever comfort I could in that way. I knew that he wished he could run away then, back to Baker Street where emotional happenings had once been worth a laugh and a sneer. But I would not relinquish my grip on Watson. He had not allowed me to escape the possibility of a life without cocaine, and I would not allow him to escape the possibility of a life without Mary.

Despite his silent protests I led Watson through the maze of weathered stones, smiling when he started to lead me. It proved my theory that he had indeed come to visit her before. The reluctance was tangible in the manner with which he dragged his shoes, but Watson did not cease walking or turn around. For that I was immensely, and perhaps a little ridiculously, proud.

We at last arrived to one tombstone that held any meaning for either of us. It was spectacularly gray, the etchings of the name of a Mrs. Mary Watson painfully fresh and clean. It was too young to know neglect. I smiled slightly at the impromptu garden that had 'mysteriously' manifested around the grave, a variety of exotic flowers looking beautifully out of place - my acquaintances in the local florist shop had not disappointed me. Watson, however, was not admiring the flora, instead gazing intently at the marker of Mary's final resting place. I was surprised at his silence, but I knew that it was his way of keeping his emotions under his control. Had he attempted to speak, I suspect he would have sobbed instead.

This forced remoteness bothered me. It would have been entirely appropriate for him to express his grief. Such was expected of a widower! Yet Watson was not allowing himself that release. It did not take my heightened intellect long to realize that I was the obstacle. Despite my overwhelming desire to remain by his side, I decided to offer the possibility of my absence.

"No, Holmes," he said softly in response, causing me to sigh with relief. "I… would be very appreciative of your presence."

"Alright, dear fellow - but don't restrain yourself on my account. The expression of grief for a loved one is not weakness."

Watson turned to look at me, as if not certain such words had sprung from my mouth. Indeed, I had surprised myself. I expected the words to sound counterfeit, for how many times had I suppressed my own emotions in times of hardship and woe? It was little wonder that Watson felt that I would not be approving of displays of emotion on his part when I did not do the same for myself.

But my friend did not point out such obvious conclusions; instead, he nodded in understanding, returning his gaze to the tombstone. For several long moments we stood there in utter silence, until the expected, albeit quiet, sob came. My Boswell kneeled before his wife's resting place, venturing to caress the horrid date of death with a shaking hand. I let my shadow over the gravestone speak of my continued company, so intensely private did the moment seem that I could not join him on his knees in bereavement. Even so, I would not leave him, for I do could nothing else in the way of comfort but proffer my apparently valued presence.

For exactly how long I stood as audience to my friend's grief, I know not. I was quite prepared to stay with him for the entire night if necessary. After a time, however, Watson recovered himself, stiffly rising to his feet. His face was streaked with tears; he mumbled a word of gratitude as I handed him my handkerchief, mumbling something or other about needlessly subjecting me to a matter that would make me uncomfortable.

I'm certain readers of The Strand will be aware of Watson's description of me as insufferable, impossible, a man who will try one's patience, etc. At that moment (and many moments before) such titles could have been applied to my faithful doctor. So unerring selfless could he be that he delved into stubbornness, and then there would be no swaying him in whatever opinion he had formed. Now he believed that this whole matter had been a great affliction to me, promptly forgetting that it was I who brought him here, who assured him there would no shame in a display of grief. Still, however, he thought only of me. It was a frustrating business to know that I could not possibly alter Watson's disposition so that such devotion, as much I valued it, would be gone. That placed an odd responsibility on my shoulders, one that I had never borne - the burden of being a friend. I realized I would have to take care of Watson just as much as he took care of me. The concept was entirely daunting.

Watson showed signs of wishing to leave, his eyes avoiding the tombstone. I realized we would be coming here again until Watson had healed, and I would accompany him every time, case or no.

My friend suddenly grasped my hand, trying to shake it but failing as a result of his nerves. I took both of his in mine for a moment as he looked up at my face. "Thank you, Holmes."

"Do not worry, Watson. I promise this will not be the last time we visit her together."

The corner of Watson's mouth turned upward in gratitude. "I will hold you to that, Holmes."

"Good fellow," I said quietly as we slowly began to leave that accursed cemetery. "Now, if you're feeling up to it, would you like to accompany me to Simpson's? I would recommend ordering a broil, a stew, or something of that sort - if I remember you correctly, they were some of Mary's favorites, were they not?"

"…yes, Holmes. Yes they were."

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**A/N: Complete! **


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